Chapter 17 - Why I missed it
I had warning signs.
Not enough to predict everything.
Enough to learn from.
Six months before the storm, Lizzy asked me:
“Do you have a quiet room?”
I thought she meant:
A reading room.
I said:
“My bedroom.”
She asked:
“Does it lock from outside?”
I laughed.
“No. Why?”
She shrugged.
I should have asked more.
Another time, when I returned her to my parents’ house after a museum trip, Lizzy started crying in the driveway.
“I want your house.”
I assumed ordinary transition.
I said:
“You’ll see me next weekend.”
She whispered:
“Grandma gets mad when I cry for Mommy.”
I said:
“She probably gets sad too.”
That answer hurts me now.
I translated a child’s statement into an adult-friendly explanation.
Not because I wanted her harmed.
Because the alternative meant asking whether my mother was unsafe.
Hard questions are easy to postpone when the person involved raised you.
My mistake was not failing to be psychic.
It was accepting ambiguity because clarity might demand action.
After the storm, I stopped doing that.
Not by assuming everything was abuse.
By asking.
“What happens when Grandma gets mad?”
“What does quiet room mean?”
May you like
“What do you mean by scary?”
Then letting trained people handle the rest.
